


Stitch Me Up (DreamNotFound)

by galacticlyss (CosmicallyLyss)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Based on a Set It Off Song, Boys In Love, Extended Metaphors, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphors, Mild Sexual Content, Not ever but with each other, Songfic, Soulmates, Stitch Me Up, Very soft and non descriptive, flowery writing, i am posting this at a little past two a. m., in dream's house in florida, just a pair of young men, no beta we die like men, non streamer AU, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicallyLyss/pseuds/galacticlyss
Summary: "....there was always one that knew Dream like no other. One that wasn’t scared of the gashes the broken glass could leave, one that was unphased by the pinpricks of blood that bloomed along his hands as a result of the thorns, one who would grip so tight to the ice to the point that the cold would burn him, all in the hopes of never letting the ice go....-------------------------------------....there was always one that knew George better than he knew himself. One that reveled in the chances he got to burn away the plastic and leave only the sunlight and purity, leave only what was real. One who craved the sweetness and had a particular resistance to the ache of overexposure, devouring as much as he could. One who plucked the clouds from the sky and caught the rain in his hands to give the sun a chance to shine...."
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	Stitch Me Up (DreamNotFound)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i do in fact have to make a rewrite of my original SMU fic from Feb 2019 every time i join a new fandom !  
> currently, both dream and george have given the go-ahead to suggesstive/nsfw content about them, but if either CC changes their mind, I will be deleting this fic.  
> it's inspired by the song Stitch Me Up by Set It Off, who i most definitely recommend just as a really good band
> 
> happy reading!!

_ No, it's no wonder I feel broken. _

Dream lived trapped in a cage of glass. The shards so deadly, so transparent. Everyone could see inside, nothing was ever hidden. Was the cage he built trying to protect him from the world? Or did he put up his crystalline walls to protect the world from himself?

Dream was a cage of glass. Fragile and so easily destroyed. One wrong move, a simple slip-up, and everything would shatter to the ground, the clamoring eventually diminishing to silence. His eyes shone on a daily basis, the shimmering salty water that welled inside of them giving them that mythical glow.

Dream’s feelings were trapped by a cage of thorns. He’d be punctured, stabbed by the own barbs of his self-denial if he tried to let any emotion out. For a glass boy, showing emotion made him weaker, made more spiderwebbed cracks bloom against his crystal skin. The thorns made sure that Dream’s feelings never surfaced, the thorns made the emotions subordinate.

Dream was a cage of thorns. He’d attract everyone with his rosebud cheeks and cherry blossom lips, and he’d drive them away with the pinpricks he was surrounded by. Nobody would touch him in fear of leaving with hands decorated with strings of ruby-red.

In his own right, Dream was a Siren. Dripping with desire, enticing with ecstacy, fascinating with fallacy. He possessed the voice and the charm to draw the unsuspecting passers-by into his graces, and they would leave - if they could - stuck with the shards of glass and edges of thorns that the man was made up of.

In his own right, Dream was lonely. His heart beat like no other, his blood rushing in a way unbeknownst to other people. In a room of one thousand - sweaty bodies pressing against his glassy thorns - he would never feel more alone. He was a delicate ice sculpture in a world of careless firecrackers. The flamethrowers he lived around tried to shatter his glass, pluck his thorns, melt his ice.

In his own right, Dream was broken. Between his heart and his head lay a twisted and mangled map, the correct roads and paths left unclear. Between his thoughts and his words sat a vial of poison, lacing every phrase of his with a sickly sweet venom. Between his wants and his needs crossed fractured lines, blurring out any clarity the man could have had.

But there was always one that knew Dream like no other. One that wasn’t scared of the gashes the broken glass could leave, one that was unphased by the pinpricks of blood that bloomed along his hands as a result of the thorns, one who would grip so tight to the ice to the point that the cold would burn him, all in the hopes of never letting the ice go.

_ Are you the one to fix me up, _

_ Patching up the work they done? _

_ Try and sew me. _

_ So thread the needle, tie it off. _

_ Teach me how to trust someone. _

George. He was the only person Dream believed he could confide in. In the early hours of the morning when Dream’s demons would most often come out to haunt him, dancing around in his tired head, George would be there. He would water Dream’s roses and willingly get pricked by the thorns. He would rebuild Dream’s glass and sit complacently as the shards scratched up his skin. He would refreeze Dream’s ice, letting his own lips turn blue before he stopped relinquishing all his heat in the hopes of becoming cold enough for the other man to survive.

Whenever the firecrackers got too close to Dream, George would be there before the explosives had a chance to react. He would shelter the crystalline rose behind his own shield and suffer all the burns. He would walk away from the explosions with his dark hair sticking damp to his head, knuckles and lips coated in crimson honey, eyes framed with clusters of violets. His porcelain skin would warp and crack and split, but he would do it ten times over, all for his man of glass and thorns.

No matter the time of day, whether the sun was tinting Dream golden, or the moon was adorning his milky skin in silver, George was there to make sure the light only ever caressed him in the right way. Gently, with the proper sort of care. George was the only one besides the light - which he of course controlled and guided - who knew how to touch Dream the right way. When Dream’s glass was on the verge of breaking, he needed it to be treated soft and tender. When his thorns were especially hardened, he needed them to be broken down.

Between Dream’s heart and head lay a twisted and mangled map. George would spend all the time in the world unfolding and properly refolding the papers until they yellowed and grew soft at the edges. Between Dream’s thoughts and words sat a vial of poison. George would drink it all down, his own thoughts and words turning the venom into an elixir of life, the insidious and oily black turning as gold as Apollo’s sun chariot. Between Dream’s wants and needs crossed fractured lines. George would create anything he needed to reconnect those lines, wiping away at their blurry corners until they were crystal clear.

_ Really hoping that you stay, _

_ That you never walk away. _

_ Every word I shouldn't say, _

_ I shouldn't say, I shouldn't say it. _

Dream wouldn’t know what to do without George. The man was magnetic, constantly pulling along Dream and baring his soul in the most raw of ways. He had a way of stripping Dream of all his protections: he gently removed the glass, placing down each pane with care; he picked each rose and replanted them all for another time, and left him as solely himself.

Dream was free with George, in every sense of the word. Free of burden, free of body, free of mind and spirit. With George by his side, Dream could confidently strut past the flamethrowers and grenades. The heat of their fire couldn’t sear him, the noise of their explosions couldn’t strike fear into him. The fire only gave Dream a glow, the tips of his messy blonde hair styled by streaks of red-orange light. The noise only gave Dream a voice, no longer his Siren charms, but something that was entirely his own.

Dream was in love with George, in every sense of the word. He couldn’t just settle for cuddling with the man, using each other as blankets. Being wrapped inside George’s embrace on a daily basis was like heaven, but Dream wanted more. He wanted euphoria. He had seen the way George looked at certain points in the day. Just waking up, eyes opening for the first time that day. He would look at Dream with a smile so utterly angelic and a gaze so subtly sinful. Getting out of the shower and exiting the bathroom, steam billowing out from behind the door and enveloping the older man in a translucent cloud, slightly obscuring the view of the snow white towel that hung low around his hips.

They would often come close to reaching the point Dream wanted to get to. The room would go as silent as the world once made Dream feel, and they would inch closer and closer together until their lips almost brushed. But before cherry blossom ever got the chance to meet bubble gum, one would pull away. And Dream’s glass would add layer upon layer, his thorns growing rapidly, clouding the man from view. He would only ever whisper his secrets and desires in the dead of night. The stars would keep his secrets and fantasies written as constellations for Dream to look up to every night as he started to drift off, George’s arms wrapped around his waist.

_ Do you feel the stress in me? _

_ Steady bursting at the seams? _

_ You're the only one I need _

_ To make me complete. _

There would always be days where Dream would get tense. Too tangled up in his own thorns, cut by his own splintered glass, and his own coat of ice would grow so cold it froze him to near death. His defenses would wear themselves down to almost nothing, and Dream almost broke down, burdened by hard he tried to keep his emotions hidden. They were waiting to spill out and over the edges of Dream’s defenses, like tidal waves brought down on the shore of an unsuspecting village. They were waiting to wash away all the progress Dream had made in making himself believe that he could live without feeling. Of course, the only important part of ‘believe’ was its central ‘lie’, so it was difficult to tell how Dream truly thought he could live.

There would always be days where George would be there to relieve Dream’s tensions. He’d run his hands along the smooth planes of Dream’s clothed back, letting the raindrops that fell from Dream’s eyes stain his shirt. He’d cover Dream with his own body when the younger began to tremble and shake, thunderclaps now affecting his rainstorm. When all Dream wanted to do was break, let his glass cage fall over him and cut into his skin, slicing the cruel lines of reality into his flesh, George would give up his body to protect Dream from any harm the glass could bring. When all Dream wanted to do was shrink, his thorny vines growing around him, constricting his throat until the only thing he could think of was the true pain that life could bring, George would give his last breaths to Dream and break him out of the vicious cycle.

Dream needed George like a flower needed sunlight - without the vital support, Dream would shrivel up, curl into himself and wither away with the warmth, the first signs of a winter chill bringing about his eternal end. All his life, he had lived as a kid ridiculed by others. They’d focus on his imperfections, how he was never the smartest kid in school, though academically proficient. They’d mock him for his freckles, using them as a template for blackened bruises. Everything Dream did was never enough, not for anyone, and it was when his glass truly started to form.

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ Don't tear me apart. _

_ I've been stuck in a rut, _

_ Patched up in the dark. _

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ There's pins in my heart. _

_ Pardon all my precious scars. _

Dream would break sometimes. It was inevitable, and when it happened, all other life seemed to halt. When Dream was broken, so was the nature of the world. Flowers would stop blooming, the winds would whistle in a desolate way, crying out for their glass boy, wishing for the power to heal his petal heart. The rain would fall, it would cry along with Dream. Just like George’s shirt would become a collecting ground for Dream’s salty tears, the ground became saturated with rainwater, the runoff pooling around in abandoned spots of town, meandering aimlessly around cobblestone streets as Dream wandered around in his own splintering mind, trying to find his way back to the rational part of himself.

The roses would wilt, the dewdrops on the morning grass would lose their luster, and branches of once mighty trees grew dry and snapped off, crashing to the ground. Which, of course, raised the age old question. If a tree fell in the forest with nobody around to hear it, was a sound ever made? The same applied for Dream. When he broke, when his glass and thorns fell away to nothingness, and he was alone, did his fall truly matter? In the grand scheme of things, did it ever happen?

Dream might not have thought it mattered, but to George, when his best friend began to slip from springtime to harsh winter, George was always determined to bring the sunshine back to Dream's eyes. To make the rosy flush of his cheeks regain their color, and to make his cherry blossom lips bloom again.

And maybe - just maybe - he wanted to be the one to make Dream bloom. To grow lilacs against the pale expanse of his neck and spread tulips across his skin. Dream lived trapped in a cage of glass, but George was willing and wanting to shatter that prison.

_ No, it's no wonder you've been feeling _

_ Like a doll in lost and found: _

_ So mistreated, thrown around. _

George lived trapped in the rays of sunshine. Overly optimistic, blinded by the harsh light. Giving his all and ending up burned, outside protection peeling away to leave raw openness vulnerable to the world. Was he just warmed by the heat? Or did it scald him past the point of return?

George was the glow of sunshine. Bright, intense, watching over the earth. If it’s looked at the wrong way, it will destroy without a sense of remorse. Bringing warmth to everything, pulling it into his clutches, before burning it all to ashes and covering the earth in a film of smoky gray.

George's feelings were trapped in a sickly sweet exterior. Honey and bubblegum, chocolate and caramel. Seemingly soft and innocent, but once it got out of control, it would spiral and cause aching pain. Showing emotion portrayed him as sweet, whereas inside he was sickly, his very soul being eaten away by his own duality. He hid his emotions behind a sugary facade, never allowing anyone to taste anything but sweetness.

George was sickly sweet. Charming on the outside, appealing to everyone who laid eyes on him. He radiated an aura like candy, enticing and desirous. Chocolate eyes, bubblegum lips, honey skin. Everyone wanted a piece, everyone craved more and more and more until all that was left was an empty wrapper. So he would draw them in, give them a teasing taste, and leave.

In his own right, George was a doll. He made himself up to look plastic, to look fake, to look perfect. If the rest of the world saw him as flawless, maybe he could start to believe it himself. Fake didn't matter. As long as the end result was perfection, the journey was fruitless. The soft hair, the ivory skin, it was all to prove a point. That if he were styled to what others thought beauty was, he would consider himself beautiful.

In his own right, George was mistreated. He did it to himself, he did it to numb himself from the pain the world brought. His sun would be clouded so often, that instead of breaking through the fog, he would let it embrace him, the tendrils curling around his brightness. He let toxicity surround him - he wanted the noxious fumes to block his light and poison his sugar. It was part of being sickly sweet - beautiful on the outside, the inside sinister, insidious. The part of him he kept hidden from the prying eyes of the public.

In his own right, George was shattered. Between his mind and eyes rested broken mirrors, distorting his vision and perception of even the most basic things - like himself. Between his heart and mouth sat a heavy stone, choking his sound and restricting his air, leaving him silent to the world. Between his thoughts and actions flew lead-tipped arrows, puncturing and poisoning each and every target.

But there was always one that knew George better than he knew himself. One that reveled in the chances he got to burn away the plastic and leave only the sunlight and purity, leave only what was real. One who craved the sweetness and had a particular resistance to the ache of overexposure, devouring as much as he could. One who plucked the clouds from the sky and caught the rain in his hands to give the sun a chance to shine.

_ Who you kidding? _

_ Every flaw and every fray, _

_ That's what makes you sexy to me. _

Dream. George's angel, his flower boy, the one he knew had his back in any situation. The cause, problem, and outcome of a situation were all trivial, even negligible when Dream was there. On cloudy days when George would taste only of bitter plasticine material, Dream would pick up the pieces, clean up the fallout. He would pick away at the plastic shell George insisted on wrapping himself inside, he would take everything George had to offer him with his overwhelming sweetness, he would reign in George's sun from its infinite floating in the abyss of space and bring it back down to earth for the man if he asked.

Whenever the weather of life turned too cold, freezing up the plastic, submerging the sun under wave upon wave of clouds, and making everything sweet turn cold to the touch, frostbitten and undesirable, Dream would be there to warm the earth all on his own. The world could get as cruel as it wanted, even going as far as to show how it could tear George down in the blink of an eye. But Dream would be there to combat the forces of nature with his bare hands, red ribbons and dark purple cumulonimbus clouds dotting his cirrus cloud skin.

No matter the weather, whether or not it was scalding or unbearably cold, the heat making George's senses boil or the cold making his blood freeze and clot, Dream was there to make sure that George always fell back or rose up to stability, the normally pale skin of his returning and no longer replaced by too light, too sickly skin with a blue or gray tint. It took a special hand to get George to regulate - Dream's hand. The way it rubbed soothing circles along the man's scorching or icy skin, either absorbing or releasing heat like it knew what to do on command. Dream was the person to bring George back down to reality.

Between George’s mind and eyes rested broken mirrors. Dream was accustomed to broken glass, and never had an issue with quietly piecing the mirrors back together. Between George’s heart and mouth sat a heavy stone. Dream would chip away at the rock until it was nothing, leaving harmless dust in its wake. Between George’s thoughts and actions flew lead-tipped arrows. Dream would direct the weaponry away from the light and make certain the poison plunged into anything that would try to shadow George’s brightness.

_ Really hoping that I stay, _

_ I could never walk away. _

_ Every word we shouldn't say, _

_ We shouldn't say, we shouldn't say it. _

George wouldn’t know what to do without Dream. The man was grounding, bringing George back to his senses, letting him slowly and carefully fall back from the atmosphere to the earth. He had a way of harnessing George’s sun - absorbing the rays and painting the world golden with them. He could balance out the oversaturated sweetness in George’s life - adding only the perfect flavor to complement what the older man already had to offer to the world.

George was liberated with Dream, in every sense of the word. He could float in the stratosphere among the clouds and raindrops all he wanted and have the knowledge that Dream would pull him back when he drifted too far from safety. The gazes that surrounded George, the ones that tried to bruise his honey skin and taint his cotton candy lips were no more, not with Dream around. The clouds that tried to block out his sunlight no longer made his sun cower behind its blockade, instead his bright golden light shone through with a more intense glow, breaking through and bringing dawn.

George was infatuated with Dream, in every sense of the word. Settling for just friendly touches wasn’t enough, he longed to fill his senses with the man, cutting himself on the glass and trapping himself inside the thorns. Pulling the blonde towards him whenever he desired was a feeling out of this world, but George wanted to take that feeling and escalate it to pure bliss. He knew the way Dream appeared at different points throughout the day. In the morning he’d glow, the sun reflecting off his glass. The afternoon would bring out his flowers, soft rose petals contrasting the thorny vines he wrapped around himself. And the night - George’s favorite time to see him. Stars glowing in his iridescent eyes, the moon caressing his skin in a way George longed to. The night would make him look ethereal, like an angel brought to earth, gracing mortal beings with his heavenly presence. And of course, the times where Dream became the night itself, powerful and commanding of attention which George always yearned to give him.

They would often approach the destination George longed for. The clouds would break and the sky would lighten as both men leaned closer, and zinnia would be moments away from brushing strawberry. But as far in as they leaned, as close as their breaths got, the collision never came. Perhaps it was for the fact that both men were petrified. George’s sun would begin to shine so bright the world burned, and his secret desire for Dream would burn with it. He would only tell his secrets to the clouds when they covered him, knowing his whispered truths would be safe with the clouds as they dispersed. And laying on the grass, head resting against Dream’s chest, he was able to smile up at the clouds - both his shield and his prison.

_ Do you feel the stress in me? _

_ Steady bursting at the seams? _

_ You're the only one I need _

_ To make me complete. _

There would always be days where George would shut down. Skin reddened and sore from a self-inflicted sunburn, mouth aching from an overdose of artificial sweetness, and the clouds bringing lightning and thunder to force George further down the twisted path of his own thoughts. He would contemplate letting others that only wanted a small taste of him back into his life, consider giving away his bubble gum mouth for moments just so he could feel like he was wanted. If he could, he’d ask Dream to be the one he gave himself to - he was the only one George truly wanted - but the prospect was too terrifying, so he would stick to his dreams. He would wonder whether or not it was worth trying to break past the wall of clouds that tried to block him out of the world. Maybe his light was too harsh. Instead of lighting up the world gently, it set the world on fire and destroyed everything it touched. Maybe he could get covered by the clouds until they overtook his being, shrouding his sun permanently.

There would always be days where Dream would spend his time making sure George could reboot successfully. He’d reroute the wires in George’s brain and coax the insecurities to fall from his strawberry lips, letting the man fall apart in his arms. His chocolate eyes would fill with tears, and when they fell, they dripped down his honey skin sparkling like sugar. And when that happened, Dream was always there to dry George’s tears, to speak in soft whispers until George once again believed that he didn’t need to determine his worth from the criticizing eyes of others, that he was eventually going to break out from the prison the clouds held him inside once and for all. Dream would take all the burns the sun could give him in stride, only caring about bringing the sunshine smile back on George’s face. Dream would willingly make himself sick from the overabundance of sweetness if it meant being able to balance George out, regulating him to health.

George needed Dream like the sun needed the moon - without the cycle that allowed the sun to rest and recharge, George would burn forever, burning brighter and hotter and faster until he collapsed in a glorified supernova. All his life, he had been taught that those hungry for his berry lips were allowed to take a bite, but he was taught even more strictly by society that falling for your closest friend would only bring pain, and it turned Dream’s cherry mouth into forbidden fruit. As much as he wanted to be honest about his feelings, his fear of rejection won over everything else, and he resigned to pining for his closest friend in privacy.

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ Don't tear me apart. _

_ I've been stuck in a rut, _

_ Patched up in the dark. _

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ There's pins in my heart. _

_ Pardon all my precious scars. _

George would stop shining sometimes. It was unavoidable, and when it happened, the world grew impossibly darker. When George’s light was gone, so was the universe’s. The clouds would turn the skies so gray it was as if they had no color at all, the stars would fail to come out at night, not wanting to show their face without their sunshine showing them how to brighten the night sky. The earth would grow cold without George’s heat, and the days seemingly became shorter. Just like Dream’s soft whispers would comfort George as he faded, the whistles of the wind would softly howl, whispering promises of better days to George to convince him to shine once more.

The shadows would descend and the world would be covered in darkness. Like snow forming a soft and white blanket over the earth, fog swept across the ground, blanketing the world in something unexplainable, something sinister and gray. Was it for the best? There were people that hated the sun, that loved the rain and the darkness of night, so when the sun stopped shining, was that what more people wanted?

George didn’t think it really mattered - all the sun did was burn people and cause droughts and fires - but to Dream, the world descending into darkness was the prequel to an apocalypse. It made him determined to bring the sunshine back to George’s smile. To make his honey-like skin glow as it did before, soft and sweet.

And maybe - just maybe - he wanted to be the one to bring back George’s light, his glow. To pull him from the depths of the shadows from his lips connected to his own. To make his honey skin rosy from his touch. George lived shielded by storm clouds, but Dream was going to put up a ceaseless fight until the line of clouds broke and he got to see George shine brighter than ever before.

_ Elegant and broken, _

_ Tasteful tattered clothing. _

_ I guess we've been caught in the middle of love. _

Being scared wasn’t worth it. Not pushing for what they wanted in fear of judgement was pointless. So it happened one day. Late at night, the stars absent until George’s light came back, and the rain pouring as it cried for Dream’s flowers to bloom. Inside Dream’s cozy bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms, they had decided they had been avoiding what they craved for far too long. With each heavy exhale they released as they tried to regulate their breathing after having cried for hours, they inched closer and closer. Eyelashes wet and heavy from tears, eyes tinted red. At the same time they were broken, they were beautiful. And as their eyes fluttered shut, their lips meeting for the first time after years of craving this sort of touch from the other, sparks flew. It was as if the world had an epiphany. The stars had blinked back to existence, and the rain faded to a drizzle before stopping completely. All that was left was a slightly illuminated silence. Neither of them wanted to pull away from the other, not when they had been putting this off for years. Hands found their way into hair, twisting in the strands and staying there as a silent promise of forever.

It was Dream who wanted to deepen the soft kiss, he who craved for more than just a sample of George’s cotton candy mouth, and the older man gave him all the access he wanted, lips parting for Dream and Dream alone. The younger had already been situated on George’s lap - an earlier crying session had landed him the spot - and as he began to explore George’s mouth, hearing the soft whines and pleas for more the dark-haired man let out, his hips rolled forward. He inhaled sharply when he felt George move up against him, a hot spark running down his back from the friction the action caused.

Dream leaned forwards, pushing against George until they both fell back against the bed they had been sitting on, bouncing slightly from the mattress. Dream was holding himself up above George, staring down at the older man with adoration in his eyes. George’s mouth was parted slightly, lips as red as candy apples, his skin hot and flushed. The white sheets under his body made him look even more heavenly as they brought out the deep contrast with his dark brown hair that looked nearly black in the poor lighting. And looking up at Dream, George felt like he was seeing what true beauty was for the first time as he gazed at Dream with his pupils blown wide, and blonde hair sticking to his forehead from the small sheen of sweat that had built up over his skin. George’s hands made their way to the bottom of Dream’s lime green sweatshirt, tugging on it with a small whine. The green-eyed man got the message instantly, sitting back on his heels to pull off his sweatshirt as quickly as possible before leaning back down and capturing George’s lips once again, this time in a searing kiss.

Both of their hearts were racing, skin tingling at every bit of friction they managed to coerce from the other. When George pulled Dream down against him, the younger threw his head back slightly, providing George with the opportunity to do what he had longed to do for ages. Connecting his mouth to Dream’s neck, he gently bit down on the skin, pouring all his love into the open mouthed kisses he placed against the quickly forming bite marks. In his time licking and sucking at Dream’s throat, a garden had bloomed along all the areas George had affected. A field of roses spread down Dream’s neck, dotted in places with clusters of wild violets, dark against the otherwise pale skin.

Dream’s hands were hot as they pushed under George’s soft shirt, running up and down his chest and causing the shorter man to shiver underneath him. With soft murmurs of  _ off, take it off _ , George sat up slightly to remove the clothing, letting it fall somewhere on the floor. Whereas Dream was all quick, rushed movements, George was slow, his pace languid. Both men had a red flush spreading from their cheeks down their chests, the shade appearing like bouquets of tulips on Dream and a hundred sunsets on George.

George’s hands were pressed against Dream’s hips, gripping tightly, slight marks of his bitten fingernails imprinted on the bare skin. His fingertips dipped slowly down past the waistband of Dream’s sweatpants, a hushed question regarding permission preventing himself from delving further. When Dream nodded, a small  _ please  _ entering the room, George’s heart swelled. Dream was convinced he could see the sunrise during the deep dark of midnight as George grinned. The older man pushed down the dark grey sweatpants and sat up to remove his own as Dream finished kicking his off.

They were both sitting up, the only thing separating them being one thin layer of clothing a piece. Their chests were heaving, blood running hot, pooling in their cheeks for a moment before traveling down their body. Just as the two were positioned before laying back against the bed, Dream climbed into George’s lap, securing his legs around the other man’s hips. Leaning down, he collided their lips together. As he rolled his hips against George’s, repeating the action until he had worked up a steady pace, Dream took advantage of George’s gasp to slip his tongue into his mouth. The soft moans and whines being swapped into each other’s mouths sounded like music to the pair, the harmony and melody blending perfectly to create a symphony of want.

_ Motive through emotion, _

_ Damaged but we're golden. _

_ I guess we've been caught in the middle of love. _

Hands found their way to waistbands, eyes meeting, hearts racing. It would stop here, or it would keep going. The glass would break and the sun would fade, or it would keep going. Low voices asking for more, begging for further access were answered by hushed and breathless confirmations. And now, no longer separated by fabric, breathing one another’s air, skin against skin, they had never felt so close. Slowly, in a way that was nothing except for tantalizing, George reached down between them, hand outstretched. When his hand closed, Dream gasped, his eyes squeezing shut. Upon George’s hand starting to move, slow and gradual as the sunrise, Dream shivered, hips subconsciously bucking up to try and get George to quicken his pace. But it was to no avail. George had pressed his lips against Dream’s in a kiss so intense it was almost bruising in an attempt to distract the blonde from the almost torturous pace he had decided upon.

Dream could feel a coil of heat intensify in his stomach and voiced it to George, whining when the movements around him were stilled. The older man quietly took one of Dream’s hands from where it was clenching the sheets and brought it up to his mouth. Dream had sucked in a breath at the action, the implications of what was to come when George wrapped his lips around Dream’s index finger sending a spike of heat throughout his body. George’s breathing was heavy as he worked his tongue around Dream’s finger, coating the digit with the saliva building up inside his mouth. He looked up at Dream, dark eyes framed by his long, dark lashes. The dirty-blonde haired man could feel his heart rate quicken - there was the duality again. George’s eyes professing such innocent love and care, but his mouth doing everything but. When he finally pulled away, he shifted out from underneath Dream, leaning back against the headboard.

It was the unspoken communication the two shared that prompted Dream to lower the same hand down towards the mattress. George lifted his hips from the bed, a whispered  _ please, love, please  _ escaping his reddened lips. Dream kept his left hand rubbing George’s stomach as a way to keep him grounded as he dug around in his bedside drawer for a fresh bottle of lubricant (water-based, the safest kind) he knew he owned. Dream popped the cap quietly and coated his fingers in the substance. He let the closed bottle fall on the bed next to him, dropping soundlessly on the mattress. The noise George had let out when Dream slowly, gently, carefully pushed his saliva-and-lubricant-coated finger inside of him was high-pitched and airy, not sounding like him at all. The soft smile beginning to form on George’s face was what led to Dream pushing deeper, face flushing a lovely shade of carnation and hibiscus when he heard George softly moan out his name. His real name; a breathless gasp of  _ Clay- _ had escaped George’s lips. It had taken a few minutes before Dream entered a second finger, and in the time it took for his two fingers to become three, to become four, in order to properly open George up, more stars had filled the night sky, their silvery glow lining the otherwise dark bedroom.

George had grabbed Dream’s wrist when he felt ready enough, his eyes holding all the words his mouth, too blissed out to function, couldn’t form. Dream grinned in understanding, slowly removing his hand. George whined at the loss of the feeling, but tried to focus on the way the light was hitting Dream - who was now reaching yet again into the drawer of the small end table next to his bed, this time for a foil square - making his toned, bright features stand out against the deep blacks and blues of the room. When the silence was broken by Dream ripping open the foil packet, George couldn’t stop the soft cry that left his mouth. He was quieted by a  _ patience, sunshine  _ as Dream rolled the protection down over himself. Before Dream could grab the small bottle from next to himself on the bed, George swiped it and popped the cap off. Dream watched quietly as George drizzled the contents of the bottle into his hand, and licked his dry lips at the sight. Beautiful. No matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, George would always look gorgeous. Regal, even, with his dark eyes and defined cheekbones.

The shorter man let the bottle drop next to him, and shifted the smallest bit forward, once again taking Dream into his hand. The way Dream reacted as George spread the bottle’s contents with long, thin, deft fingers was just so undeniably  _ Dream  _ that it made George’s hand speed up, once again becoming impatient. When he pulled his hand away, he gazed softly at Dream. The blonde’s breathing was labored, coming out in rough pants. A subtle smile framed George’s face as he inched forward, lifting himself above Dream. The younger man’s hands rested against George’s hips, and he slowly began to pull the man down on top of him. George tensed at first, the feeling was a few months foreign to him, but he was relieved of all stress when Dream kissed him gently. Just like always, he was bringing George back to reality, back to the moment.

Dream couldn’t but think about how their situation now wasn’t that different than how they were in the past. More often than not, Dream was wrapped in George’s embrace, being pulled closer by the older man. And in a way, the same was true now. George had the same thought pattern - he always wanted to have his senses completely overtaken by Dream, and that had happened in the most intimate of ways. George’s eyes had fluttered shut after Dream had finished pushing his hips forward, and the way he was clenching around Dream made the younger start to build a steady - slow - pace of gently lifting his hips up as George pressed down against him.

It was when Dream had hit  _ that spot  _ that George let out a broken cry, his hands roughly fisting the sheets, the cloth bunching up underneath white knuckles. Dream’s movements became rougher, whispering praises against George’s shoulder where he had chosen to rest his lips. He could feel that George was rapidly approaching his climax before the man got the chance to whisper it, and Dream was right there with him, matching him evenly. It was the way that George looked down at Dream - his eyes glassed over from the euphoric sensations, completely enamored with the man under him - that sent the younger over the edge, punctuating his release with soft chants of George’s name. His nails dragged down George’s back - his glass cutting into George’s skin, just like he craved - and was the impetus that caused George to reach his own release, Dream’s true name once again on his lips.

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ Don't tear me apart. _

_ I've been stuck in a rut, _

_ Patched up in the dark. _

_ Stitch me up, stitch me up, _

_ There's pins in my heart. _

Silence slowly descended upon the room, filling it like substanceless smoke. Lips stayed connected as Dream slowly pulled out - he tried to be as gentle as possible, already seeing how drowsy and oversensitive George had gotten. By the time Dream had dropped the soiled protection into the waste bin at the foot of his bed and grabbed a few tissues to clean up the rest of the mess, George was lying down, his eyes halfway shut. The sky was lightening, the first rays of morning light shining through the window. The pale orange hues that glowed against George’s body only proved more to the younger that he truly was sunshine.  _ His  _ sunshine. George was half-asleep, but that didn’t stop his body from involuntarily twitching when Dream ran the tissues across him to clean him off.

When Dream fell back against his pillow, hair messy and stuck up at numerous different angles, George believed he never looked more beautiful. He was truly a flower, one of nature’s most delicate and stunning creations. George was exhausted, but it didn’t stop him from drawing Dream’s face towards his own, whispering confessions of love against the man’s rose petal lips. Dream smiled as he professed his own promises of infatuation, gently convincing George to get under the blankets. It took some pressing, but George eventually complied, only when Dream slipped below the covers with him. He drew the taller man closer, arms around his bare torso, and placed a soft kiss against the place on his chest where he loved resting his head. He fell asleep to the sound of Dream’s steady heartbeat, the feeling of Dream’s soft hands running through his hair. Dream drifted off comforted by the warmth radiating from George, and the mumbled  _ I love you _ s that he whispered nodding off. Glass could break, and flowers could wilt. The sun could stop shining, and sweetness could be unbearable. This was all true. But it no longer mattered. Dream and George were there for each other - in every sense of the phrase - and with their confessions of love, their promises of forever, it no longer felt like the world could tear them down. 

_ Pardon all my precious scars. _

**Author's Note:**

> eep i hope you enjoyed the cute little fic! idk, the SMU fic is versatile in each fandom i use it for, i just need to find a friends to lovers soulmates type beat that works.
> 
> smile about something today!  
> xoxo, Galactic


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